Something On Your Back
by The Dancing Daleks
Summary: "Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" John asked sadly. Mike laughed. "What?" John asked. "Oh nothing. I just thought of a joke." Mike said cheerfully. He glanced behind John to see down the road and sat back, shocked. "What?" John asked hurriedly. "Nothing." Mike said, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. "I just thought I saw something on your back."
1. Chapter 1

**So I saw this post on tumblr that inspired this fic. Maybe some of you have seen it. I'll put up a link on my page. I hope you enjoy!**

Sebastian Moran sat at the dank bar, a scotch in his right hand, the day's paper in his left. The stool he sat on wobbled and squeaked with the slightest movement. There was little light in the bar, something that had drawn Sebastian to it. No one to talk to him. Even the bar tender seemed to realize that no one came here to talk, instead electing to fill drinks at the wave of a hand. That was just fine with Sebastian. This was his fifth scotch of the night and even he, who prided himself on being in excellent physical condition, was starting to feel the alcohol. Every wobble of the stool was a bit harder to bring under control. He didn't care.

He glanced to the newspaper. He'd opened it earlier to one of the inner pages. The headline read "Fake Genius Commits Suicide". That wasn't what drew his eye. He stared at the two small pictures under the headline. One, of course, was the late Sherlock Holmes. Moran laughed harshly, but it came out as more of a grunt. Late. There was no way Sherlock Holmes was really dead. The man always had a trick. And even if he was, it wouldn't change the picture next to Holmes's. It was a familiar face to Sebastian, one that he'd seen laugh with twisted joy and threaten others with exquisite and inventive punishments. Of the two, Moran had to admit he really preferred the second, as long as it was aimed at other people.

There was a single paragraph in the article. Something about legendary criminal James Moriarty who had also allegedly killed himself on the very rooftop that Holmes jumped from. It hadn't said allegedly in the article. Moran had added that word. If he knew James, and he liked to think that he did, then he wouldn't have checked out until his master plan had succeeded. The James Moran would have watched Holmes jump to his death. The papers had it wrong. What was it James had always called them? Oh yea, fairy tales.

But what did it matter. Sherlock Holmes was most likely alive and James Moriarty was dead. This was not the way it was supposed to happen.

"Damn him!" Moran slammed the empty glass down on the cracked wooden bar, startling the only other patron. He, Moran assumed it was a he from his height, was cloaked by shadows and a large hooded coat. The figure turned to look at Moran, his face invisible and asked,

"Who?" Definitely a man's voice.

Moran turned and glared at the visitor, but he was not dissuaded. Maybe it was the alcohol but there was something about this stranger, something that said he could trust him. At least with this information. Maybe it was because it reminded him of how he'd met James, how he'd asked him to work with him. Maybe he was just incredibly drunk. Either way, he still replied, "Sherlock Holmes. I wish the man had never been born!"

The stranger stood and walked towards Sebastian, then sat on the stool beside him. Moran could just make out his features in the shadow of the hood. He could see the stranger's lips move as he said,

"How'd you like me to do you one better?"

"How?"

"You want Sherlock Holmes to never have been born, but that wouldn't solve your problem. Bear with me." The stranger compelled Sebastian to sit back down as he'd tried to leave in disgust. "If he never lived, someone else would have simply taken his place. But what if," The stranger leaned forward and whispered into Moran's ear, "he'd died before he even got the chance to kill James Moriarty?"

Moran jerked back and snarled, "How did you-"

"Know?" The stranger laughed. "Sebastian, I know everything. So don't even worry your pretty shaven head about it." Moran considered the stranger's words. There was no logical way he could have known, except for the newspaper in his hands and the excessive drinking. Still, there was something about this man.

"How?" Moran asked hesitantly.

"Simple. We take away the man who kept Sherlock Holmes alive."

Moran shook his head. "You can't touch his brother. He practically is the British government. And what good would that do now? He's already dead. Holmes has already won."

The stranger smiled a serpent's smile, made all the more disturbing by the fact that the shadows hid the man's face above his lips. "I don't mean now. I mean years ago. And I don't mean Mycroft. To be perfectly plain, what would have happened if Sherlock Holmes had never met his doctor friend?" Moran thought about it, a grin slowly coming to his face. The stranger also grinned and held out his hand. Moran grabbed it firmly and shook. That was when Sebastian Moran passed out, but it wasn't from the alcohol.

* * *

The air was cold, as was typical that time of year in London, as John Watson limped through the park. It wasn't that he particularly liked the park, or that he liked walking when every step pained his war wound. It just so happened that he lived on the other side of that park, at least for now. His search for a more permanent home had proved fruitless and at this rate, he'd need all the money he had to get a place, so calling a cab was out of the question. He passed couples on the benches that lined the walkway, families with squabbling children and one that had an old friend seated on it. John hurried on. Perhaps he wouldn't-

"John!" Busted. "John Watson?" Watson turned to looked at Mike Stamford. He'd grown, both up and out, one more so than the other. His hair was going, but it was still Mike.

"Mike! Hi." John limped over and seated himself upon the bench beside Mike. They exchanged pleasantries, talked life. John tried as little as possible to mention the war.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" Stamford asked.

"Got shot." Watson answered bluntly. Attempting to lighten the conversation, he said, "Are you still at Bart's then?"

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be." Mike whistled, "God, I hate them. What about you? Just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?

John shook his head. "I can't afford London on an army pension." He said.

**"**You couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know." Mike said

**"**Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..." John started bitterly.

**"**Couldn't Harry help?"

John scoffed. "Yeah, like that's going to happen." John and his sister hadn't spoken since her alcoholism had become even more of an issue.

**"**I don't know, get a flatshare or something?" Mike suggested innocently enough, but it soured John's mood.

**"**Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" John asked sadly. Mike laughed. "What?" John asked.

"Oh nothing. I just thought of a joke." Mike said cheerfully. He looked around, then at his watch, then back towards Watson, shock in his eyes.

"What?" John asked hurriedly. He'd seen that look in too many eyes. The terror.

"Nothing." Mike said, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. "I just thought I saw something on your back." Mike cleared his throat. "Well, I'd best be off. There's someone I'm supposed to meet." Mike stood, took one last look at Watson's back, and then trotted off.

As John walked back to his temporary home, he couldn't help feeling that Mike had intended to say something different, but he couldn't place the feeling, but neither could he shake it. Something had seemed… off about Mike and their entire conversation. Unable to locate the source of his discomfort, Watson instead let himself into his room and methodically washed and sat down on the edge of his bed with the newspaper.

At first he thought it was a joke, something a student had cooked up for April Fool's Day. But there it was. The headline warned of serial suicides. Four of them so far and all identical. The police had no leads, although Detective Inspector Lestrade had offered the gem piece of advice for people to protect themselves by not committing suicide.

Distressed by the lack of competent officers and tired, John folded the paper back up, laid it carefully on his desk and lay down to go to sleep. Something told him he wouldn't fall asleep for a long while. The entire day had just felt off somehow, ever since he'd seen Mike. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, but not before patting down his back, just in case there had been something there. He didn't find anything.


	2. Chapter 2

**So it's been really great to hear from you guys and to see the response this has gotten already! I probably should have mentioned this earlier that yea, the title is a reference to the _Doctor Who_ episode _Turn Left_. While the plot device is similar, it is not the same person and I promise there will actually be a purpose to it's usage, not just a cool episode.**

**Anyway please please please tell me what you think! And thanks again!**

* * *

_The room was familiar to John, as he'd studied and autopsied many a body in the morgue of St. Bart's Hospital in his school days. The sheet covered mass on the gurney in the center of the room was clearly a body, which was revealed as the brunette lab coat wearing woman pulled back the sheet. She mumbled something about when the body had come in, how she'd known him. Not very confident, that one, John thought. _

_The man she was mumbling to, however, exuded confidence from every pore. He didn't wear a lab coat or gloves, just a long black coat, the collar turned up. His pale skin contrasted sharply with his black curly hair. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back, his blue eyes surveying the room. He stood with solid resolve, someone who knew what he wanted. He couldn't be the woman's supervisor; his lack of medical dress attested to that. He held his body with complete control, but did not seem to be military either. Everything in the room paled in comparison to this man. Even the woman couldn't take her eyes off him. An obvious crush, but somehow he took no notice. There was something there, John could sense it._

_The man seemed to be drawing John towards him. His voice was deep, not husky, almost hypnotic. John was so enthralled by the few words he had spoken that it took him a moment before he realized what those words had actually been._

_"We'll start with the riding crop."_

_John did a double take and watched in confused horror as the man picked up a riding crop and began beating the body vigorously. The crop smacked loudly against flesh with each blow. It echoed around the room and faded into the next strike. The woman had moved outside to the observation window. She watched with a repressed smile, her eyes never leaving the dark haired man. She seemingly found nothing wrong with the events that were unfolding in front of her. _

_John couldn't help but recognize the man's strength. He had to have some muscles hiding under that bulky coat of his. He could almost imagine- wait what was he thinking? The man stopped whipping the body and started out the door. Watson hurried to follow his longer strides. As he followed he heard the man say "Call me with what bruises form in the next 20 minutes. A man's alibi depends on it". The man confidently sauntered out the door and as the door slammed in Watson's face, he awoke._

John swung his legs over the side of his bed, trying to make sense of what he'd just dreamt. Had it been some strange kinky repressed sex dream? It definitely seemed far removed from the ordinary, but then the man had mentioned an alibi. Could the man have been a cop? It would explain the mysteriously authoritative aura he seemingly glowed.

John stood and limped a few feet to the desk against the opposite wall. He sat and searched the drawers for a blank sheet of paper. He finally found one under his gun that he always kept loaded and ready. He grabbed a pencil and began to sketch.

He thought the hair would be the hardest part but it was the eyes. He left a blank space for them as he sketched the man's face, his pointed nose, the sharp cheekbones you could cut yourself on. He drew the collar of that black coat that hid his throat. But the eyes stayed blank. Even the curly mass atop his head had been easier than putting life into those eyes.

Frustrated, John laid down his pencil. The drawing wasn't perfect, and the lack of eyes made it a little creepy for John's taste, but he was shocked at how vividly he could still imagine the man's face. He generally didn't remember his dreams, except when he remembered them far too vividly. But this… this was so much different than anything he'd ever dreamt. It had felt so real. And that man…

Watson picked the pencil up again and sketched one eye, then another. Carefully he shaded the pupils. He shaded and stippled and erased and shaded again, but when he finally gave up, the eyes were still dead. But why did it matter so much to him? It was just a dream.

Yawning, John stood from the desk and set to making his bed. Tight and smooth sheets and clean hospital corners. The army had enforced that, even if he'd originally picked it up in med school. Satisfied, he put away the pencil and debated what to do with the drawing. He finally settled on putting it back in the drawer. For some reason he couldn't force himself to recycle it like his other drawings. He was getting attached to a picture of a man he dreamt beating a body with a riding crop. What would Ella say about that? Watson sighed. Today was going to be another day of apartment hunting. Wearily, he stood and went to shower. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

**So as you can probably see, we're going to be seeing a few scenes from _Sherlock_ written in here. Sorry if they aren't absolutely perfect but I'll try my best. See you in a few days!**


	3. Chapter 3

**So this was originally two chapters but it sort of just melded and I let it. Thank you so much for your support! **

* * *

Several days passed. John followed his daily routine; shower, save, search. The Three S's he called it. Nearly every day returned the same results. Once, he'd found a small place on the outskirts of the city but he'd been too late. His casual search for a flatmate was unsuccessful, when he bothered to look. Honestly, he didn't want to find one. He liked his space and he liked everything the way he'd left it.

Today, as with every day, he was taking an afternoon break in the park where he'd seen Mike a few days prior. He sat on the bench and read the paper, then went home to try to blog, a homework assignment from Ella. God only knew what she thought it'd help.

The paper was mostly uninteresting and depressing, as always. One article caught his eye. Another one of the serial suicides had been found, this time in an abandoned house. According to the paper, it was exactly as before. The article came with a picture of the four previous victims and the newest one, a professional woman named Jennifer Wilson from Cardiff. But that wasn't the interesting part.

John knew her. She'd been in his dream that night.

He'd been called by the dark haired man to an abandoned building. It had been crawling with cops, all in uniform. He still wore that dark coat and walked with purpose, checking the ground obsessively. They talked with a few officers, the dark haired man insulting every one of them. They walked up the stairs to a room, the wallpaper peeling off the walls. But by far the most unusual thing was the dead body in the center of the room. She was dressed head to toe in pink. John, upon the dark haired man's suggestion, set to examining the body. It was unreal. It was John examining the body, of that there was no doubt. But he was also watching the scene unfold from a distance. He watched himself turn the woman over, examine her face, throat, hands, chest, check for a pulse. The standard check for your typical dead body. He'd turned to the dark haired man. They talked like they knew one another. John could sense there was more to the story when he woke up.

He'd written it off as watching too many crime shows before bed, but now it was different. That woman was real, and she was really dead.

Something was off though. Besides the real dead woman in his dream, of course. It took him the entire walk back to his apartment, and three breaks to rest his leg, before he noticed what was different.

In his dream, he wasn't limping. His hand wasn't shaking. It was as if the war had never happened.

He'd dreamt about people he knew before, but never someone who was real that he'd never met. And he'd never dreamt that he didn't limp. He always limped in his dreams, regardless of where or when they took place. And he'd definitely never dreamt of examining a murder (was it murder?) victim the very night the murder had occurred. And the dark haired man was there again. Could he be real too?

One thing was very certain: These were no ordinary dreams.

* * *

John Watson had always prided himself as logical and intelligent. Rational, that was a good word. That was why he couldn't believe it when he found himself in his therapist's office, telling her that his dreams were coming true.

He'd debated whether or not to tell her for days. It was his third dream that had decided him.

"How long have these dreams been going on?" Ella asked gently.

_"How long have you been crazy, that's what she means." _Watson thought to himself. "About a week." He said out loud.

"So not very long then," Ella made a note on her clipboard. "And what makes you think they are real?"

"_Yep, she thinks I'm crazy." _John thought sullenly. He'd heard that tone before. She was just humoring him. "I know I've never seen either of those people. I know it. And yet there they were and there she was, dead. The same night. I know this sounds crazy but that's gotta mean something." _"Yup, crazy."_

"Interesting." She paused again to scribble on her clipboard. John knew he wouldn't get another chance. He knew he couldn't convince her only by describing the dreams. He couldn't make her feel how real it had felt. But he could tell her this. Taking a breath, he said,

"There's something else, about my dreams." Ella looked up. "I wasn't limping. No tremor. Nothing. Believe me I noticed. And it wasn't like a normal dream." He rushed, cutting off the inevitable question. "I always limp in my dreams. Always." Ella continued to scribble, then set the clipboard down on the ground by her chair. She sat quietly.

"Do you truly think he's real? This dark haired man." Ella finally asked. It hadn't been the question John was expecting. He'd thought she'd ask about the limp or about the fact that he was dreaming dead people.

"I honestly don't know what to think. Everything else has turned out to be real. Why wouldn't he be?" John hadn't really thought about it before.

"Do you want him to be real?"

John didn't answer immediately, even though he knew the answer. He hoped with every fiber of his being that the dark haired man was real. What he couldn't figure out was why. His rational mind couldn't take it. This was emotion. Towards someone he had never met, towards a man he wasn't sure even existed. He couldn't explain it, but somehow, it felt right. In that dream, standing beside the dark haired man, he had felt whole. He'd felt like the man he'd been before the war. It felt like he was supposed to care about that man, and that scared John even more. He had no way to put any of it into words, so he settled for a nod. Ella nodded in acknowledgement.

"Then go find him. Find that thing or person that makes you happy, that completes you. Rejoin the world." John groaned internally. They were speaking in metaphors now. The man represented his longing for normalcy. At least she didn't think he was crazy. He curtly nodded.

"Well alright then." Ella said brightly. "Now let's talk about the blog." This time, John's groan was very audible.

* * *

The room was dominated by a large fireplace. The raging fire was the only source of light in the room. A figure sat in the arm chair in front of the fire, reading the paper intently. He seemed not to be bothered by the lack of light. Light danced across his face from the fire, identifying him to those who already knew him, but he remained anonymous to those that did not. He was the puppet master, behind a curtain, pulling all the strings and making his marionettes dance as he pleased. He controlled everything, yet he himself did nothing. Boredom was a constant companion, almost as constant as the stream of information his spies and informants brought him. He was the puppet master. He knew all. It was his job.

Footsteps alerted the puppet master to the arrival of his latest data. He folded the newspaper and held out his expectantly. A file was placed in it by a well-dressed man. No one of consequence, just a messenger.

"A transcript." The man said in reply to the unasked question. The puppet master smiled. He had trained his pets well.

"Of?" replied the puppet master as he lazily opened the file. Information rarely ran away, not like those who carried it.

"The therapy session of Doctor John Watson."

The puppet master flipped through the pages with a renewed interest. "That'll be all." He said. The messenger nodded and turned to exit. "Actually," The messenger stopped. "Bring me some tea. And call Moran. I'll have need of him soon." The messenger nodded and left the puppet master to peruse the file alone, with only the occasional crackle of the fire to break the silence he enjoyed so much. As he read further, he began to scowl. The good doctor was starting to remember.

"What to do, what to do," He muttered to himself, drumming his fingers ont eh arm of the chair. He could just kill him. It'd be a lot simpler, but a missing Afghanistan war vet with suspected PTSD would draw attention. No, he'd just have to distract him. Shouldn't be too difficult. He smiled. It might even be fun, a reprieve from the crushing boredom of average life. And it would give Moran something to do. He'd insisted on coming along and hadn't left his room since they'd entered a new reality. He hadn't been quite sure of how to react. Moran would be an excellent puppet. He'd done it before. But for now, he would watch and wait. No need to jump the gun.

Maybe the doctor would never find Holmes. London was a big city. And if he ever did, Watson would almost certainly be put off by Holmes's personality, not to mention his appalling personal hygiene. After all, there was a reason the man had no friends, and that reason was himself.

* * *

**Look it's the villian! I think you'll like him ;) See you all next time!**


	4. Chapter 4

**So, this is the part where I grovel and beg for mercy at not updating for a week. My life just got a bit hectic. Please forgive me. This one is extra long to make up for it. Hopefully I won't wait as long to post the next chapter. I'm really excited. We're getting into the fun part now! Enjoy!**

* * *

It had been weeks since John's last dream, as if admitting out loud that he'd had them suddenly caused them to disappear. He'd watched the news relentlessly, looking for any signs of that last dream, but after a few days, he'd give up and concluded that his imagination had created the Chinese smuggling ring. But when the dreams stopped, John wondered if that meant the giant "Gollum" man, or whatever it was, had actually killed the dark haired man, and there was just nothing left to dream about. It wouldn't explain the dream he'd had about the shoes, though, but that couldn't have been related. The dark haired man hadn't even been in it, just an empty room with a pair of trainers in the center.

He'd taken Ella's advice to look for the dark haired man, even though she obviously hadn't meant it literally. The second dream had started from, presumably, where the dark haired man lived. It had been dark, but John had sketched out a pretty decent view of the street. There were some places that had just been too dark to see, like, conveniently, the number on the door the man had come from. In fact, it had been dark enough that he couldn't find anything distinguishable from any other street in London. So useless was this sketch of the street, at least for his purposes, that he'd simply taken to walking the streets with his original sketch of the dark haired man and scanning the crowds. He picked a different area every day. It had been a few weeks with no success. The man was so unique that there hadn't even been any close calls.

He'd also had to give in and call Harry. It had been an awkward conversation, what with her leaving Clara and the drinking, but it had been civil. She'd agreed to lend him enough money to stay on at least for a few weeks past what he could have initially afforded, but even that was close to gone, and his pride couldn't take calling his sister twice for money. The first time had been hard enough.

What he probably should have done was find a job, but there didn't seem to be much demand for an injured army doctor. He'd checked the local clinic but the doctor in charge of hiring wasn't interested. Sarah, her name had been. She'd been very nice, sympathetic even, but that hadn't helped John in getting the job.

He was in the apartment still, sketching. It was part of his routine now. He had to keep his memory of those dreams sharp if he ever hoped to find the dark haired man. He left the news on, just in case something important happened.

"…an explosion here on Baker Street today. No one seems to be hurt but the explosion managed to shatter windows of the buildings across the street. No official explanation for the explosion but a gas leak is suspected." John jerked around from the desk to stare at the television. The camera panned from the reporter's face to street to the buildings on the other side. The windows, had been blown out, she was right. But that wasn't what John was looking at.

The door. It was that door, that street. The dark haired man lived on that street. John knew it, he could feel it in his gut. That was the dark street he hadn't quite remembered. Which meant the man was still alive.

He squinted at the screen and could barely make out the number 221. 221. Why was that familiar? It was something from the shoe dream, he thought. 221C, maybe? That was where the shoes had been. John stood as hurriedly as he could and grabbed his cane. The shoes were connected to the man, which mean he was still alive. He shrugged into his jacket and hurried from the room_. '221 Baker Street',_ he repeated to himself over and over in his head. _'221 Baker Street, 221 Baker Street.'_

He hurried to the street and looked frantically for a taxi. In the back of his mind he wondered if he even had the money for a cab. One pulled up shortly and he limped his way to it and slid in.

"221 Baker Street" he rushed out. The cabbie pulled away from the corner, so much slower than John would have wished. Why did everyone drive so slow in this city? Couldn't they see he had somewhere to be?

It seemed like the ride took ages, when it was only a matter of minutes. When John stepped from the cab and handed the driver the note he'd found crumpled in the pocket of his jeans, he was left there, alone, staring at the door. It was black, with worn gold numbers on it declaring it to be 221. Now that he was there, he didn't really know what to do. Did he knock? Did he wait for someone to come out? And how did he introduce himself. He hardly imagined that the truth would be the preferred explanation.

Taking a deep breath, Watson hobbled to the door and knocked twice. Why was he scared of this? He'd been in Afghanistan for God's sake, he'd been shot. But somewhere inside, he realized that he'd known what would happen there. Here, it was a total mystery.

His pondering was cut short by the door opening, a small older woman inside it.

"Oh hello." She said cheerfully. "Are you here about the windows or are you here for Sherlock?" So much for an introduction or an explanation. Watson stammered for a moment. Lie or guess? Who was Sherlock?

"Uh.. um… the second one." He finally managed to say. "I'm here to see Sherlock." Why had he just said that? The woman nodded.

"Well, you better come in. I'll take you up to him. He's with his brother, so I'm sure he'll love the distraction." She walked up the stairs that were directly inside the door. Unsure at first, John followed slowly, but as he realized she wasn't about to kick him out for being a fraud, he picked up the pace as much as his leg would allow. The stairs led to a door which was left open. The woman gestured towards him to enter. Cautiously, with his free hand inside his pocket holding the drawing, he entered.

The room was at once large and small, big enough to fit probably his whole living quarters and cluttered and full of everything useful and otherwise unimportant. There was a fireplace, the mantle covered in knick knacks ranging from a skull to what appeared to be a bat. There were two chairs, not matching, in front of the fireplace and a small desk against one of the walls, completely covered in books and what appeared to be science equipment. There were shelves everywhere, full of books but there seemed to be more books than the room could hold. On one wall was a moose head with head phones over its ears. The walls weren't one color, some places having one paper pattern, others another. It was ordered chaos. But that wasn't what interested Watson

In the red chair was a man dressed in a pinstriped suit, his hair thinning a bit on the top of his head, his face serious. By his chair was leaned an umbrella with an ornately carved handle, though John knew it hadn't been raining outside. He was staring intently at John, and he realized that he had barged in on a conversation. This stare, however, was nothing compared to the stare of the man who sat across from him. It was the dark haired man, clad in a dark blue dress shirt and slacks. He held a violin as if he had just been about to start playing. His hair was just as curly as it had been in the dreams and his eyes just as piercing. He stared at John as if he could see into him, taking in every detail of his existence. They were a blue John had never seen. The angles of his face were even sharper than they had been. He wasn't wearing the coat, but John noticed it laying over the chair at the small desk.

"It's you!" He spluttered. John really wasn't capable of much more than that. The well-dressed man cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, as if trying to understand this proclamation. The dark haired man stood and took three long steps towards John. He hadn't realized how tall the dark haired man was in the dream.

"Who are you?" Yep it was him. That was the voice.

"…John Watson. I.. uh…" Thankfully, the dark haired man saved him from having to finish a coherent thought.

"Whatever your mystery is I'm not the one to solve it. I'm a bit busy. If your wife is gone check for the gardener and if you're suing for compensation from the military I am not a lawyer." The dark haired man turned and went into another room which Watson could see was a kitchen. He poured himself a cup of tea and then returned to the sitting room.

"I'm not here for a mystery. I'm here-" John thought for a moment. "How did you know-"

"Pointless question that you no doubt already know. Or else why would you be here?" The dark haired man cut him off rudely.

"Sherlock, it is customary to let other at least finish a sentence." The well-dressed man said pointedly. He must be the brother. Which made the dark haired man Sherlock. Somehow the name fit him.

"I'm here because… well, this is gonna sound crazy but… you were in my dreams." Watson held his breath, waiting for the inevitable laugh, the call for the cops, any reaction that any normal person would have, really.

"I don't deal with dreams. I only deal in facts, Doctor Watson. Go find a gypsy fortune teller." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, not even looking up as he sipped his tea.

"No, I mean I dream about you… and they come true." No response. Time for a new tactic. "I dreamt about the dead woman in pink, the one who killed herself but I'm guessing she didn't really. And I dreamt about the body in the morgue, the one with the…" Watson didn't finish the sentence. For some reason, he felt that he shouldn't reveal what Sherlock did in his free time to his brother, if that's who the well-dressed man was. "And I dreamt about this smuggling ring and these shoes and-" At that Sherlock jumped up and rushed to Watson. He stared at him, not blinking.

"Shoes?" he said, still examining John.

"There were these shoes in a basement or something. 221C or something like that? I wasn't sure what they meant but you live here so I figured there was a connection…" He trailed off as Sherlock rushed from the room and down the stairs. John took after him, the suit bringing up the rear.

When they stopped, they found themselves at a door. 221C it said. Sherlock was trying to open it to no avail. When he sensed John had reached him, he turned and said, "How did you know about the murders? It was never revealed they were murders. And the pink." He turned away as John spluttered. "Mrs. Hudson, I need that key!" He bellowed. The small woman from before came with a key chain, muttering something about water damage and mold. Sherlock plucked the keys from her and inserted the key into the lock, then thrust open the door. He hurried down the stairs, John, Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock's brother at his heels. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, John was shocked to find an empty room, like in his dream, and a pair of trainers, dead center.

"Well, Sherlock, this man seems to have solved your little mystery." The well-dressed man stated gruffly. John noticed he had brought along his umbrella on the journey.

"Yes…" Sherlock muttered to himself, staring at the shoes. "But what I don't understand is why."


	5. Chapter 5

I'm so sorry! My life got crazy with my family and school but here it is! Chapter 5! I've started posting this on Ao3 also in case you're interested. Please leave me feedback on this, including my Sherlock. I'm still getting down Sherlock speak! Thank you so much!

John was staring that the shoes, dumbfounded. It was ridiculous, really. He could have simply dreamt the pink lady and substituted her face once he'd read the newspaper. He could have imagined everything else. But this, this was exactly as he'd dreamt it. The wallpaper was a ghastly orangey brown star pattern on white and the carpet seemed to be the color of mold. It probably hid the mold that was in it. The single small window let a beam of light shine in, but beyond that it was dark and dank. No wonder no one lived here.

Sherlock stepped towards the shoes. John heard the well-dressed man caution Sherlock, something about a bomb. In the back of his mind, John remembered the news story that had even prompted him to come to the flat. So it hadn't been a gas explosion? Sherlock was on his hands and knees now, staring at the shoes. It reminded John of the way he'd seen Sherlock examine the pink lady in his dream. He watched as Sherlock stared at the shoes, but didn't touch them. He treated the shoes like a body. John was getting the feeling that Sherlock really didn't see a difference between the shoes and the body.

"What's he-" John began but was silenced by a harsh shushing sound from Sherlock's lips. John looked to the brother who shrugged as sympathetically as could be done without changing one's facial expression. The room remained silent after that.

Suddenly, Sherlock jumped to his feet and rushed at John, crossing back to the edge of the room in a few quick strides.

"You know what I would advise," his brother drawled lazily. The man didn't seem to care and yet, he was still commanding. John couldn't decide whether it frustrated him or intrigued him that he could sound so disinterested and concerned at the same time.

"Calling Lestrade and asking about all cases involving a pair of trainers? Yes that will go brilliantly Mycroft." Sherlock replied quickly. His voice wasn't terribly sarcastic. In fact, it was rather monotone, but somehow, John could feel the sarcasm rolling off of the man in waves. Even so, Sherlock pulled out his phone and pressed a few buttons. Too many for emergency, but too few for an actual number. Who was Lestrade?

"Yes, we've had a break through with the explosion, no I won't explain it over the phone. Just bring any case files involving a pair of trainers and a few officers." A pause, finally. John made a mental note never to call Sherlock. "Yes, the man's right here. No we won't let him leave." Sherlock hung up the phone, his eyes never leaving John's face throughout the conversation. Even baring his deepest childhood secrets to Ella would have felt less uncomfortable and invasive than Sherlock's gaze. Those piercing blue eyes were penetrating him everywhere, finding his weaknesses, taking him apart. He was so engrossed in the stare that it took him a few moments to fully comprehend what Sherlock had said. The man's right here…

"What, me?" John spluttered.

"You know, I am rather disappointed. So enigmatic. Were you afraid I wouldn't get it and thought you'd give me a helpful hint?" John tried to defend himself but he was silenced by the torrent of words issuing from the man's mouth. "Don't insult me with your lies. You saw me in a dream, really? I suppose you want me to believe you have no idea how to rid a gas main to explode or how to pick a lock or that I'm the only consulting detective in the world or that you're not Moriarty and you haven't been planting little puzzles for me for months now. You must think you're clever. You'd have to be to pull this off. The phone, those plans. You've had your finger in a lot of pies. I've been circling around you, picking up the little pieces of your crimes. We could ask your taxi driver friend for proof if he hadn't been shot, and by someone with military training. Awfully convenient that. But he told me about you. They didn't want to tell me, but I know. You arrange their lives, give them goals. Direction. Help even, but never directly involved. You think yourself a genius, and I'll admit you had me going for a moment, although your execution was less than original."

Sherlock was still speaking, but now John was panicking. Criminal, him? He'd never done anything criminal in his life. He didn't even understand what was going on. He found himself sputtering, but nothing was coming out and that face, that pale angular face was in front of his, looking down on him. And those eyes, those impossible to draw eyes, they were so displeased. It would be going too far to describe them as angry, because that was nowhere near the emotion they displayed. And Sherlock was far too calm for anger. No, those eyes seemed… disappointed, in a way. As if John's imagined crime was not what he had hoped for. The thought scared John. What kind of detective would be disappointed in a crime?

"I suppose you thought you were clever, showing up like this, out of breath, confused. The limp was a nice touch and the tan as well. Very thorough. But you forgot that I am Sherlock Holmes and I can see through you and everyone and I-"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft said sharply and loudly. John hadn't heard Mycroft trying to cut his brother off throughout most of the tirade, but he was grateful. He took a few deep breaths as Sherlock turned away from him and walked towards his brother, a menacing expression on his face. Whether that was directed at him or Mycroft he couldn't tell. What kind of man was he dealing with? Was he even a man?

John was breathing hard, like he'd run a mile after eating too many biscuits. What was going on? If the man really was a detective, and judging by everything John had experienced up to that point he was, then why had he seemed so disappointed? Mycroft was whispering harshly at his brother in the corner where they had convened. Sherlock's replies sounded rather angry. John had to show strength. He couldn't let these strange men set him up. He instinctively reached to steady the tremor in his hand, but it was already still. He held the hand up before his eyes; there was nothing. Perfectly still.

"Not possible," he muttered. Sherlock didn't even turn as he corrected,

"Not probable. It stopped the moment we set off for the basement. Your therapist is an idiot."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed. John blinked a few times, unsure of how one should react to having personal details shared with complete strangers, by another complete stranger.

"How could you have known about my therapist?" John said, halting every few words. There were too many questions all trying to force their way out. This one just seemed most obvious.

"Anyone with a psychosomatic limp recently returned from combat has a therapist. Don't insult me." Sherlock responded, then returned to his hushed conversation. If anything, Sherlock's answer had just raised more questions in John's mind.

"Who the hell are you?" John said loudly and without thinking. The two brothers turned to face him, and John found himself under two eerily similar microscopic glances.

"You see my point?" Mycroft said quietly, almost smugly. Sherlock nodded, still staring.

"Upstairs." Sherlock said. He didn't wait to see if the pair would follow him as he started back up the stairs. John went last, using his cane and a steadying hand on the railing to help himself up. He couldn't for the life of him remember how he had gotten down those stairs to begin with. His labor was rewarded with the memory that he had yet more stairs to climb before he would reach Sherlock's flat. He cursed his leg under his breath and kept on hobbling.

When he reentered the main room, the scene was nearly identical to his first entrance, except Sherlock had set down his violin and the woman who had let him in was standing in the doorway of what looked like the kitchen.

"Ah, doctor, you made it." Mycroft declared. "Come, have a seat." John looked around. The only seat left unoccupied was beside Sherlock and covered in rubble. He wasn't sure which was more unappealing. He shook his head. He could have sworn he heard Sherlock mutter the word psychosomatic under his breath, but it could have just been a cough. Right. Instead of pursuing the matter, he leaned against the doorway, cane in hand.

"So you mentioned a dream?" Sherlock broke the silence, all business.

"Yea, a couple actually." John cleared his throat.

"Tell me." This guy's lack of manners was really starting to get to John, but he took a breath to start anyway. As he opened his mouth, the doorbell rang.

"It's Lestrade and his boys hoping to arrest someone." Mycroft stood as he spoke. "I'll take care of it. I have business to attend to anyway. And so do you Sherlock. Don't forget, national security and all." Mycroft started out of the room.

"Get them to leave the case files!" Sherlock called out after him. Mycroft didn't respond, but John could hear him telling whoever was at the door that the windows weren't what they used to be and to drop the files at the top of the stairs. Sherlock's face twitched into a nearly imperceptible smile that John was slowly learning to recognize. Everything the man did was small, but telling.

"So, dream?" Sherlock said impatiently. John limped across the room to take the chair Mycroft had vacated.

"No." he said. Sherlock looked up from his steepled hands, studying John. The twitching smile was gone. "You answer some of my questions first." Sherlock remained still for a moment, then nodded.

"One for one. You first." The man didn't speak much. Still, John would take what he could get and chose his first question.

"Who are you? I mean, how can you have the police on speed dial? Why would you even need that?"

"Technically, it's not the police, it's Lestrade, a particularly inept Scotland Yard detective. I help him out occasionally. As for me, I'm Sherlock Holmes." He said it as if that was supposed to mean something to John. John shrugged, trying to convey without words the fact that the man's name meant close to nothing. "The world's only consulting detective." Sherlock finally supplied. "My turn." He leaned forward, staring intently at John. Sherlock was much taller. Even seated and leaning over he seemed intimidating. John straightened himself to meet the gaze. "First dream. When and what?" Sherlock's eyes were alive. They focused directly on John's face but he could practically feel those eyes reading him like a book, gauging and recording his every movement.

"Well, it started about a month ago. You were in a morgue. I think it was Saint Bart's, but I wasn't sure. And… there was this woman… and there was a body…" John wasn't straining to remember; he was trying to avoid the riding crop. He wasn't uncomfortable. He just didn't find it appropriate conversation for a first meeting. Then again, Ella and his limp had come up several times already so really the man had brought this upon himself. "And you were beating it. With a riding crop. Something about bruises." John had expected some sort of reaction from the man, perhaps shame? Instead, he withdrew back into his seat. He said nothing, but his eyes had changed. They were calculating now. John remembered the whole point of the game and settled upon his second question.

"How did you know all those things about me? About what El- my therapist said about my leg? And the war?" It was perhaps the largest question looming in his mind currently behind "Why am I dreaming you?".

"I observed." Sherlock replied simply. "And the second dream? When was that?" Sherlock had a habit of looking around as he talked, as if John had not yet earned his full attention. It rankled him, along with the lack of a proper answer to his question.

"Wait hold on?" John said, frustrated. "You don't just get to do that, give two word answers." The man was staring blankly back at him, as if he'd never been told anything he'd done was inadequate. At least John now had his attention. "Answer the question the right way or I'm leaving." John was surprised to find that he meant it. Sherlock Holmes was a rude man, nothing like the personality John had concocted for him from his dreams. Part of John wished Sherlock wouldn't answer so he could return to his quiet normal life that didn't involve anything remotely newsworthy. But a part of John hoped he would answer. For better or for worse, he was fascinated by the man, unhealthily so.

They stared, John refusing to back down the intensity of his gaze. He stared at those eyes, the bright eyes he couldn't get right, then sighed and stirred to begin leaving. He found he was more disappointed than relieved.

"When you came, you stood. You didn't ask for a chair. Like you didn't notice your leg, telling it's psychosomatic. As for why the coloration of your skin is slightly different on your hands and face from under your collar so sun exposure. You held yourself together, presented yourself for examination. Obviously military. Your jacket is old, worn out, due for replacing but you haven't but it's not because you're fond of it because your razor needs replacing as well. Laziness? Not from a military man. So it's money. Obviously back from combat looking for a place but haven't the money. Shall I keep going or have I provided a satisfactory answer for you?" Sherlock talked quickly, barely pausing for breath. His words flew from his mouth almost inhumanly fast. John found himself lost in the speed of them.

"That was… brilliant," he said, clearing his throat. Sherlock almost looked surprised.

"That's not what people normally say." He said, his voice deep. How could a monotone express so much emotion?

"What do they normally say?" John asked.

"Piss off." Sherlock replied simply, the words catching in his throat.

John could feel something at those words, tugging in the back of his mind. Some kind of familiarity or remembrance. But how could it be possible? This was the first time he'd met the man. There was something familiar, though, like they'd had this conversation. Déjà vu, that was the phrase.

John shook the feeling away and settled back into the armchair. It wasn't rational, but conversation felt familiar with Sherlock. He was thinking that word a lot, familiar. He felt at home, almost. That wasn't a feeling he had in any place, not even his own home at Christmas time. He'd give the man one more chance.

"There's a spare bedroom that way. I get a discount on the rent because I gave Mrs. Hudson a hand with her husband, so it's affordable. If you go now you can have your belongings moved in here within the hour. I'll begin going through the files." John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. Did the man even realize what he was offering? Just as he was getting ready to respectfully decline, Sherlock interrupted, "We both know any protest you make will be entirely for show. It's in your moral code, not to accept charity. The door will be unlocked. We can continue this discussion upon your return." As John headed out of the room muttering thanks, he vaguely realized Sherlock had never asked if he wanted to move in with him. He had just assumed the answer would be yes. What concerned him was that he couldn't tell if he minded or not.


	6. Chapter 6

The puppet master was sipping his afternoon tea when Moran so rudely rushed in raving like a wild man.

"They're living together! It's just like normal except worse! If you'd just let me kill them both it would have been so much simpler!" Moran raged, stalking around the room like a caged lion.

"I told you. The timeline would have corrected itself." Apparently Moran was not in the mood for patient apathy. With a growl he overturned the tray that held the puppet master's teapot.

"Fuck the timelines. I want him dead." Moran breathed deeply under the puppet master's judging glance. When he had calmed enough to speak in a normal tone of voice, he stood directly in front of the puppet master, focusing every bit of rage and ferocity into his words. His tone may have been calm but any ordinary person could see the rage seeping out of the seams of Moran like steam. The puppet master was no ordinary man, and it was impossible to ignore the man's attitude problems.

"Calm yourself Moran. You betray your emotions."

"Don't think I don't know who you are. That I don't recognize you." Though calm, the threat implied by Moran's tone was displayed bond and clear across his face. Yes, Moran was quickly outliving his usefulness. And as his most recent outburst showed, he wasn't particularly intelligent. He'd overplayed his hand, but Moran didn't even realize.

"Do not attempt to threaten me. You are my guest. If I wanted I could send you right back to your brooding in that disgusting bar. Is that what you want?" He took Moran's silence as a surrender. "Now, to your original concern. I am in fact aware of the doctor's new living arrangements. But it is far from what they had been or could be. There is more distrust than companionship. And now that I've indulged you, it is my turn. The swimming pool. I assume correctly that yon were the sniper?" Moran nodded. "So now I ask, what was supposed to happen?" Moran took a moment to answer.

"Well, Irene wasn't supposed to call in a favor like she did."

"I have dealt with that. Ms Adler is currently tied up in a fashion to which she is entirely unaccustomed. What else?"

Moran didn't like the man one bit, but he had to appreciate the utter coldness with which he regarded other humans. They weren't people to him. It grounded Moran, brought him out of his rage and reminded him of his goal in the entire exercise. Getting back Moriarty. "Well, we waited for Holmes to contact us and leave, then we snatched the doctor and gave him a bit of a wardrobe makeover. Holmes did exactly what he was supposed to do until he pointed a gun at the damn vest." Moran could still feel the cool metal of the trigger on his index finger, could still see the impossible standoff. Could still remember every detail of Moriarty's face as he watched it for a signal, a sign, anything.

"If I were to arrange it so that you were once again the sniper, could you make certain events would transpire has planned?" Moran nodded frantically without thinking. He was a sniper, the best before he'd been thrown out.

"Just one problem sir." The puppet master eyed Moran carefully. He had a lot of gut, but he didn't know when to quit. "How am I going to get in there? This isn't my universe."

"It may not be your universe, but there is still a you here. Now go shave or do something with that dead rodent on your face. We've got to kidnap you without you knowing it."

He'd been at Baker Street a grand total of five days and already he was beginning to question his sanity is the choice to move in with Sherlock Holmes. For one thing he kept getting mistaken for the man's boyfriend. Not that he had a problem with it. His own sister was with a woman. It was just more than a little unnerving to see how little his new flatmate cared. Not once did he refute the incorrect assumptions of passersby or restaurant staff. And then there were Sherlock's personal habits. John firmly believed that flatmates should know the worst of each other before moving in, but nothing Sherlock had said could have prepared John for the incredibly unique experience provided by living with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock said he played the violin late at night. He'd left out the part where he would not talk for days, then babble endlessly. He'd he on the conch for hours wearing god knows how many nicotine patches on his arms. And he never ate. The first thing John had done was go shopping because the only thing in the flat's fridge was a bottle of mustard and a severed head. Somehow, he didn't think it was exactly edible. The first day he'd been worried, but Mrs. Hudson soon reassured him that this was perfectly normal. As a doctor he'd found it difficult to ignore, but Sherlock had been too busy dragging him around London chasing clues left by a sadistic madman to really focus his attention on the matter. Really he wasn't sure whether he should be more focused on the not eating or the man's incredibly narrow focus on his cases as puzzles rather than as people. It was disturbing really how little regard the man had for human life. But he was also the most interesting man John had ever met. Just when John thought he'd figured him out, there was another facet. It had only been five days but John felt like it had been a lifetime. He found that he didn't have to learn where rooms were. He just knew. He knew where the books were and where Sherlock kept the kettle and tea, the only really edible thing in the entire flat. He just knew.

It was the first real alone time he'd had in five days. Sherlock had gone out without a word. John didn't expect anything else. He'd just tucked himself into the armchair by the unused fireplace and began reading one of the few books he had brought with him. It wasn't anything particularly special, just something he'd picked up for a few pounds at a secondhand shop. He was only a few chapters in when he heard the ring of the doorbell. He stood and placed his book upon the only empty place on the massive book shelf the flat boasted along the wall. It was the top shelf all the way in the corner. In the background he could hear the doorbell again. He reached up and pushed the book into place. Something in the corner of the shelf caught his eye. A camera? He pushed himself up on his tip toes to get a closer look. Definitely a camera.

"What are you?" He reached towards the camera. Suddenly there were hands on his arms pulling him back. A bag was on his head. He struggled, throwing his weight at his captors. There were definitely two. He yelled. One of his legs was being held down. The other was flying wildly.

"Doctor, I would stop struggling if you ever want to see your house keeper. It would be terribly unfortunate for her to walk in right now." John could feel the unmistakable press of a gun on his chest and he ceased his struggling. One of the captors pulled him up and they each grabbed an arm and pulled him down the stairs. His feet dragged uselessly atop the steps. He couldn't tell where he was but he could hear the door shut behind him, could feel as he was unceremoniously shoved into some sort of car. He could hear it drive away. He tried to track where they were as the vehicle turned but he soon lost track.

"Alright doctor, it's time to listen very very carefully." It was the same voice that he'd heard before. It was deep and gravelly. John decided he didn't like it very much at all.


End file.
